Yes, Characters and Viewpoint is one of a handful of favourites references that I keep going back to. Me too!

I see MorganHawke has one or two on "scenes" that I must check out. It's an excellent book about writing in Chronological Order, (Action THEN Reaction.) Not just the paragraphs, but in the sentence itself. I only wish I'd read it BEFORE I learned it the hard way.

Another favourite of mine on that theme is Novelists Essential Guide to Crafting Scenes by Raymond Obstfeld. Oooooo! Sounds like something I'd really like!

GAWD that stuff drives me nuts. >.< Sex is an enormous part of the human condition, and acting like we shouldn't write about it is absurd. Especially when most of the people who spout all that crap have no problem at all with violence. ... And don't even get me started on people who think smut is "well, it's okay, I guess", but are horrified -- HORRIFIED I SAY! -- about gay erotica. ... Great post, Morgan, as always.

Why is it that murder is just fine, in music, on TV, in the movies... while making love is not? -- That's what I'd like to know.

"If you can take the sex out of the Erotica and still have a viable story -- you did it WRONG."

Totally take this point. Recently shelved a story called "Blue On Black" where an older white detective is seduced by a young black woman... Only problem was, after about 3,500 words of back story my characters were nowhere near to doing the deed. It was interesting stuff, but it wasn't Lush Stories.

Nice story, but not what I wanted to write.

xx SF

An easy way to get around that is by Writing the Sex Scene first , then write the story around it.

The werewolf drifted through the crowd of writhing dancers at the club, Gothic Noire and scowled. Although the moon had yet to rise over the horizon, he could already feel its power calling to his soul right through the brick walls of the club. I’ll have to find someone to fuck soon, or I’ll spend the next month locked in my wolf shape. In the smoked mirrors that lined the club’s walls,...

The Alchemist was getting ready to close his tattoo shop when the bells on his door chimed. He turned and there she was, a shattered angel. She stood paused, frozen in his doorway, neither in nor out, motionless on the threshold, undecided. The setting sun bled over the rooftops from across the street, staining her hair and cheek with the illusion of mortal wounds. The empty hunger in...